That Age-Old Question...
To get a boob job, or not to get a boob job?
I’m sure many women have asked themselves this very question. Not surprising given the amount of focus and pressure that is put on our bodies. The unrealistic expectations of how we should and shouldn’t look are drilled into us, whichever way we turn. But that’s another blog post.
It’s a question that has plagued my psyche for the better part of a decade. Ever since I googled ‘when do your boobs stop growing’ and realised my race had been run and I hadn’t achieved the gains I’d hoped for.
Since that fateful day, I have been as indecisive as Sian on the Bachelor, flip flopping back and forth constantly. I was a hell yes in the lead up to my 30th birthday, figuring being a fully-fledged adult warranted treating myself to some adult boobs… #amiright? But then nana died and the thought evaporated from my mind, no longer seeming like a legitimate want to entertain.
That was until I found myself sans bra after a yoga class, doing the mad dash to Big W (aka Big Dub) at 7.30 in the morning. The rate at which I forget my underwear when I do yoga in the mornings is pretty concerning. What’s even more questionable is the amount of active wear I pack for my lunchtime gym classes. That day I had three sports bras, two pairs of gym undies, two gym shirts, one pair of tights, another pair of shorts and four pairs of socks, enough workout attire to dress an entire gym class. But could I remember to pack a bra? Nope.
You see every time this little phenomenon happens. I’m faced with that all too familiar question, will they or won’t they stock my bra size? It’s like the deal or no deal game show for the cup size challenged. Trawling through the racks, my frustration grew with each passing taunting cup size. Reaching my limit, I wanted nothing more than to throw the bras on the floor in a fit of rage. Being the respectful lady I am I didn’t. But I wanted to. In my mind, I’m a badass gangsta. Instead I resolved that the universe might be trying to tell me something. Something along the lines of – ‘yo need a boob job gurlfrand’.
That day was spent in one of my three sports bras. And we all know how flattering sports bras are... #winning.
I’m an A cup at best. A 12A to be completely honest. A small cup size with wider ribs is a hard combination to cater for. Sometimes I can push a 10B if I tighten the straps to keep these lil’ puppies from jumping around. Not that they jump much. I’d call it more of a tiny bop, or a slight head nod. They’re great for running! There was a period that I tried to convince myself I was a solid B. But you can’t lie to yourself forever. At some point you need to accept yourself for who you are and live your truth.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my boobs. They’re a solid handful… ok ok I’m referring to my hands and my hands are small, but I’ll take what I can get. It’d just be nice to properly fill a bra. Experience having cleavage for once. Feel a bit more in proportion with the rest of my body. Hell, even just feel like a woman with real curves and shit.
It’s probably a question I’ll continue to dwell on. The internal argument never ends; do I spend $10k on boobs, or $10k on an overseas trip? Do I just invest in some Victoria Secret’s bras that gives the impression of boobs? Falsely advertising myself and my ‘assets’, and punk a future dating prospect if you get my drift? ;) Imagine the lols!
All I want is some acceptance of my size from the retail sector. Going bra shopping shouldn’t be such a painful ordeal each and every time. I’m just a girl, standing in the lingerie section, asking for the store to cater for my cup size.
